“Mythical Cities of Southwestern Minnesota” is a poem by Megan Kurashige. I found its title irresistably evocative, so I have reused it here. Please forgive me, Megan.

Southwestern Minnesota contains several lost cities
but for our purposes here we’ll focus on one
lost since 1871
when a Lakota grandmother
ironically named Letty Swenson
became fed up with its streets
(to say nothing of its citizens)
and shut her eyes to it forevermore.

In an instant its prosperous Belgians,
lapsed Hutterites, sodden Germans,
bewildered Swedes and lone Korean
vanished from the prairie
and became suddenly and helplessly self-sufficient
in what amounted to a soap bubble in time.

Elsa Schultz
buxom and plain
had planned to steal a horse
and ride it clear to Sioux Falls
in search of better prospects
but had to settle for Sven Lindberg.

Jon Glazer
lost two-thirds of his income
unable to sell saddles
(and and feed, and tack, and medicine)
to his customers seven miles away
in Ghent.

Kim Cheol
(whom we won’t neglect)
had planned to travel to Marshall
to attend the Swedenborgian church
instead made peace with his god
among the Methodists.

If you visited it today
(I would not know how, but perhaps you do)
you would find two thousand souls more or less
nice folks, harmlessly inbred
who would be pleased to meet you
invite you to supper, pass you a hymnal
but lacking the imagination
to fathom why Letty was so pissed.

_{Image CC-BY-SA by Raphael Quinet}

The first child born in outer space
was an accident
the result of an impulse–a joke, almost–
between two people who don’t even like each other.

Sex was slippery
and awkward
like climbing a tree
or jumping off a roof.

Continuous free-fall
has advantages and disadvantages.
It’s a curse in the first trimester
and a blessing in the third.

Childbirth in space
is exactly the hell you’d imagine.
Gravity is no help,
and the father is a bully.

Our baby floats there
in a cloud of afterbirth
eyes open wide
too startled to cry.

_{Vigeland fetus CC-BY-NC-SA by rwhgould}

Innsmouth Free Press has just published my story The Wouri Horror:

A gay sapeur and a female Great War of Africa veteran race to save a Cameroonian mad scientist’s biohacked brain eels.

Check it out!

_{Image CC-BY-NC-SA by Sewing Punzie}

Jack Move Magazine has published my essay, “After It Changed: In which I invoke an Orisha in cyberspace.” Check it out!

Per pushed the scrap of paper onto the floor and stared at the remains of his chili.

“You dropped this,” the waitress said, handing the paper back.

“It’s not mine,” he said.

She shrugged and carried it off with her armload of dirty dishes.

He mashed the last cracker crumb with his spoon.

“Is this yours?” the busboy said, holding the paper out.

“Not mine,” Per said.

The busboy ignored him and left it on the edge of the table.

Per took out his lighter, lit the corner of the paper, held it for a second while it caught flame, and dropped it into the chili.

“Hey,” the waitress said.

“Sorry,” Per said. He rose and left a five-dollar bill under his water glass.

The air outside was sharp. He zipped his jacket.

The door opened behind him. “Is this yours?” the manager asked, and handed him a scrap of paper.

#

“Hem,” the paper said.

Per flexed his toes. Hem was twenty miles away, farther than he preferred to walk in a day, even starting at dawn.

“Want a ride?” his waitress asked. She was wearing a stocking cap.

Per smiled. “I’d love one,” he said. “But it never works out.”

“Because you’re a serial killer,” the waitress said.

“I’m hell on cars,” he said.

“I’m only inviting you to sit,” she said. “On the inside.”

“Tell you what,” Per said. “If we make it a mile in your car I’ll pay you,” he pulled bills from his pocket and counted, “a hundred and thirty bucks.”

“No cheating?” she asked.

“No cheating,” he agreed, holding out his hand. “I’m Per.”

“Jennifer,” she said, shaking his hand. “My car’s over that way.”

#

She checked her pockets again.

“Lose your keys?” Per asked.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I keep a spare.”

She felt around behind the front bumper and came up with a black box.

“Magnet,” Per said. “Good idea.”

She took the key out of the box, put the box in her pocket and unlocked the driver’s door. Per walked around to the other side. She reached across and unlocked his door.

“You steal my keys?” she asked.

“I said no cheating,” he said.

She turned the key in the ignition. The car was silent.

“And my battery?” she asked.

“Wasn’t me,” he said.

He stayed in his seat as she rummaged in the trunk and emerged with a yellow box with jumper cables hanging off of it.

“Spare battery,” she said. “Smartass.”

She popped the hood, wired up the battery and cranked the ignition. The car started up. She unhooked the battery, slammed the hood and replaced the battery in the trunk.

“Hundred thirty bucks,” she said, holding out her hand.

Per pointed toward the rear of the car. She checked the rear-view mirror, then turned her head to look through the window. A white-tailed doe was blocking the parking space.

She honked the horn. “Bastard,” she said.

“I tried to warn you,” he said.

She burst out of the car, shouting and waving her arms. The doe blinked at her, then walked a few yards to the side. Jennifer jumped back into the car, threw it into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. The car jerked backwards and crashed to a stop.

“What the hell?” Jennifer said.

The doe was still two stalls away, chewing its cud.

They climbed from the car. The left-rear wheel was off, lying hub up on the blacktop.

“For the tow truck,” Per said, holding out a couple of twenties.

#

It was two thirty in the morning by the time he walked into Hem. He found a playground, unlaced his shoes, lay down on a merry-go-round and passed out.

When he woke up the world was spinning.

“Good morning,” he said.

“My mom called you a creep,” the child said.

“Your mom is smart,” Per said.

“So are you a creep?” the child asked.

“Ask your mom,” Per said.

“Your hair looks funny.”

Per sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Is it okay if I stop this?” he asked.

“Okay,” the child agreed.

Per dragged a foot and stopped the merry-go-round. The child’s mother was staring at him with her arms folded.

“Hi,” Per said. “Do you have any socks?”

“Socks?” the woman asked.

“I walked from Over Hitt,” Per said. “This pair is shot.”

“You walked?” she asked. “From Over Hitt?”

“I got this,” he said. He handed her the scrap of paper. “Probably means something funny is going on.”

“You got that right,” she said. “Henry? Let’s go get this man some socks.”

#

Per stared up at the blue sky above the bank sign. A handful of liver landed in the street.

“Yep,” he said. “I see your problem.”

“It’s been falling steadily for two weeks,” the woman said.

“You could have a festival,” he suggested. “Earn some tourist dollars.”

“Look, mom!” Henry shouted. “I found a square piece!”

“It’s a curse,” she said, “not something to celebrate!”

“I’m Per,” Per said, holding out his hand. “Thank you for the socks.”

“Oh!” she said, shaking his hand. “Sorry, I’m Kimberly. Can you fix it?”

He shrugged. “I can try. I’m going to need a grill, some charcoal, lighter fluid, wood chips, a couple gallons of water, an army blanket and two slices of toast.”

“Toast?” she asked. “You’re grilling toast?”

He stared at her.

“Right,” she said. “You’re the expert.”

#

Kimberly and Henry returned with a charcoal grill and a bearded man carrying sacks of supplies. “Per,” she said, “this is my neighbor, Chad. Chad, Per.”

“You do this kind of thing a lot?” Chad asked.

“I’ve never seen this much liver,” Per answered.

“But still,” Chad said, “funny stuff?”

“I guess,” Per said. “Did you bring the toast?”

Kimberly dug in one of the bags in Chad’s arms. She handed over toast wrapped in a paper towel. Per removed a slice and took a bite. “Can you get the grill going?” he asked.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Henry told him.

Per nodded and munched toast as Chad and Kimberly poured charcoal and lighter fluid into the grill.

“Do we need to do anything special?” Chad asked.

Per shook his head and wiped his lips with the paper towel. Kimberly lit a match and tossed it on top of the charcoal, which burst into flames.

“You’re not, uh, planning to cook some liver?” Chad asked.

“Nope,” Per said. “Smoke signals.”

Kimberly, Henry and Chad stared at the sky above the bank sign. Liver thudded down.

“What are we going to say?” Henry finally asked.

“Puff?” Per suggested. “Puff, puff, puff?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kimberly asked, frowning.

“Doesn’t mean much,” Per agreed, “but it goes up to the sky.”

“And people pay you for this?” Chad asked.

“Nope,” Per said.

#

A small crowd had gathered.

“Now!” Per said.

Kimberly lifted the wet blanket from the grill. A cloud of smoke drifted skyward.

“Again!” he said.

She flopped the blanket back over the grill.

“He’s a charlatan,” Chad told the crowd.

“Now!” Per said.

Kimberly yanked the blanket into the air. Smoke went up.

“Again!” he said.

“Look!” Henry said.

The crowd all craned their necks skyward. White shapes were drifting down.

“It’s paper!” Henry shouted. He ran to catch a falling sheet.

“Is that it?” Kimberly asked. “No more liver?”

Per pointed. A large chunk of falling liver swatted one of the papers to the pavement.

“So then what use–” Kimberly began.

“It’s music!” Henry yelled, waving a handful of papers.

#

“This is good soup,” Per said.

Mrs. Hansen had invited Per, Kimberly, Henry and Chad to her house for lunch.

“I’m sorry I called you a charlatan,” Chad said.

Mrs. Hansen hung up the phone. “That was Doris,” she said. “She says we’re short two baritones.”

“I can sing baritone,” Chad said.

“Mrs. Hansen?” Per said. “What kind of soup is this?”

“Knoephla,” she said. “I’m from North Dakota. Do you sing baritone?”

Per slurped soup and shook his head. “I’m a tenor.”

“Can’t you just fake it?” asked Kimberly.

“I can try,” he said, “but I’m not much of a singer. Can I have some more soup?”

#

The townspeople gathered around the liver, sheet music clutched in their hands.

Mrs. Mueller, the Episcopal choir director, raised her baton.

“Everyone make sure to project!” Per shouted.

Mrs. Mueller made a sour face. “May I begin?” she asked.

“Any time,” Per said.

Mrs. Mueller took a deep breath and gave the downbeat.

The citizens’ voices swelled, and the rain of liver slowed. Mrs. Karlsson took a scratchy alto solo. Per glanced up at the sky. They reached the end of the song and Mrs. Mueller gave the cutoff.

High above the bank a dot was falling.

“It didn’t work,” Chad said. “Charlatan.”

“Is that liver?” asked Mrs. Karlsson. “It doesn’t look like liver.”

“It’s a baseball!” shouted Henry. “It’s not a baseball!”

A single onion smacked down onto the pile of liver, and the crowd fell silent.

Minutes passed. The sky remained empty.

“Thanks, everybody,” Per said.

Mr. Novak rolled a wheelbarrow forward and began to shovel.

#

“This is good pot roast,” Per said.

“How did you get into this?” Kimberly asked.

Per chewed silently.

“Did you go to school for it?” Henry asked.

“When did you decide it’s what you wanted to do?” Kimberly asked.

Per bit down on a chunk of gristle. He raised his napkin to his mouth and spat.

“Are you married?” Kimberly asked.

Per looked at the wad of paper in his napkin.

“Is something wrong?” Kimberly asked.

Per spread his napkin on the table and flattened out the soggy paper.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t know how that got in there.”

The paper said, “Neste.”

“Neste,” Per said.

“Neste?” she said. “That’s clear on the other side of the state.”

“Yep,” Per said.

“Can we give you a ride?” she asked. “Seems like the least we can do.”

He carved himself another slice of pot roast. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll walk.”

_{Image CC-BY by Turinboy}

“Boy Meets Girl at a Cockfight” on Flickr

“Look at Yaro over there,” Kola said. He pointed at Yaroslav, who was shouldering a quadruple-sized tube of construction adhesive. “Nobody does demolition like a Cossack. Nobody in the world!”

The apartment was sliding out of the tower like a popped-loose Lego block.

“Russians, Georgians, Chechens? They think demolition is all C-4 and iron balls. Fuck them! We Ukrainians destroy with finesse!”

Yaro’s crew was swarming over the apartment, attaching a canopy of fat steel cables.

“Yulia,” he said. “What a goddess! There are no men in Kharkiv, you know that? Yulia went there to do some shopping, and all the men died of erections. Even some of the women!”

The crane was lowering the apartment toward the flatbed.

“When she gets home and finds her apartment missing—I’m telling you—Ivaniak’s head is going to explode! Explode! Even before she tells him!”

I checked my watch.

Kola punched me in the shoulder so hard I staggered. “You’re not the one who has to worry, my friend,” he said. “You’ll be safe at home, masturbating over your new treasure. Never mind that we will still be here tending to our angry friend.”

The apartment reached the truck, which sagged under the weight.

“I hope for your sake that you live in a mountain fortress with several large dragons keeping an eye out for Ivaniak! If you’re really unfortunate he’ll send you pictures of Yulia!” Serhiy pulled up in a sedan. “Time to go!”

We climbed in.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but Chinese cars are shit.” He patted the headrest in front of him. “Korean cars are shit. Russian cars are not even shit.”

Serhiy’s head sank deeper into his shoulders as we accelerated.

“I have all my cars built for me in Latvia. In Latvia, they know cars!”

“I hear in Los Angeles they know cars. But compared to Riga…”

We turned a corner at speed and our tires skipped across the road.

“I’d like to tell you that the best cars come from Ukraine. I’d like to tell you Kiev is car capital of the world. Even Sumy!”

“But compared to Riga, Kiev is shit. Los Angeles also, compared to Riga. You think they can build cars like this in Los Angeles?”

We were now speeding along a country road.

“But now?” he said, flipping down a screen, “Now, we watch pornography!”

_{Image CC-BY-NC-SA by colemama}

Martin Abasi
our local jua kali man
built me a nanoassembler
in exchange for my Jonway.

He used pallet wood,
cord from radial tires,
ferromagnetic paste
and Burmese contraband.

It makes decent Fanta,
Mars bars,
hair relaxer
and Polish vodka.

I paid off the local muscle,
my landlord,
my coffee shop
and my ex-husband.

In a few weeks
if my luck holds
I’ll have the cash
for a new Jonway.

_{Image CC-BY by whiteafrican}

When Americans die
they float on for years
in plastic bottles
far out at sea.

The bottles decay
the souls are released
eaten by albatross
strangling their young.

I found one myself
cloudy but whole
half sunken there
and poured out its ghost.

It offered one wish
I asked for reprieve
It laughed from its guts
and dove out of sight.

_{Image CC-BY-SA by qnr}

I looked at the bowl of rice. “I can eat kasha,” I said.

Kola waved his kasha at me and roared, “This is Ukraine! You think we don’t know how to treat Chinese?” He gave the kidneys a stir. “And anyway, the last time I served kasha to a Chinese I found him hiding in the bathroom, cooking rice in a tin cup over a Zippo lighter. He must have had the rice in his pockets!”

“My family is from the West,” I said. “We eat bread.”

He banged his fist on the counter. “Tonight, you eat rice!”

I raised my horilka and blinked at him through the glass.

“Chop me a pickle!” He dumped the kidneys from the skillet into the soup pot.

I pulled a reeking pickle from the jar and looked around for a knife.

“Anyway,” he said. “What makes you think it’s in Sumy?”

“I’m not paid to think,” I said. “I go where I’m sent.”

He laughed and handed me a bayonet. “You’re a liar,” he said. “Tell me another.”

I chopped pickle. “Ivaniak,” I said. “He keeps it at his girlfriend’s house.”

“Ivaniak,” he grunted. “You’re a better liar than I thought.” He swept pickle slices from the counter and tossed them into the pot. “You want Ivaniak, and you come to me?”

“You have friends,” I said. “Call them. Offer them soup and kasha. I’m sure they’ll do it out of friendship.”

“They might,” he said. “But I won’t.” He took the bayonet back and used it to stir the soup. “What are you offering?”

I shook my head. “Not me,” I said. “My boss.”

He frowned.

“Rolling stock,” I said. “Twenty spine cars.”

“Condition?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Five to ten years old. Completely serviceable.”

“Fifty cars,” he said.

“Twenty-five,” I said.

“Eat your rice and get out,” he said.

“Thirty,” I said. “And a ’47 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead, freshly restored, in a garage fifteen kilometers out the Sudzha road.” I tossed a ring of keys onto the counter. Pickle juice splashed up onto my shirt.

“Fuck your mother,” he said, reaching for the keys. “Sit down and eat some soup.”

_{Image CC-BY-NC-SA by avlxyz}